


Solitary Creatures

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Animals, Arguing, Fluff, Javert's a grump in the morning, Kittens, M/M, Making Up, Post-Seine, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yes I went there friends, especially when it rains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Must you look at me so?” Javert snapped, tugging the blanket back up, “I feel like a specimen in the museum.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Forgive me,” Valjean stood abruptly, before he could allow his rising irritation to spill from him, “I shall leave you to ready for the day.”</i></p><p> </p><p>Javert leaves the house on an argument and makes his apologies in a way Valjean would never expect from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd because, quite frankly, I just wanted to get it out there. Consider it my 2000 word apology for the horror of my last offering ;)

It had been a fearsome day, starting with the howl of the wind that roused Valjean before dawn, and continuing well into the afternoon with a constant rain that half threatened to wash Paris into the Seine.

He had woken Javert with coffee, just as the grey light began to filter through the curtains, and for the first time in almost four years together, his partner had rolled over in bed and covered his face with a pillow.

“Is that the wind out there, or has the Lord chosen this morning to finally put an end to this miserable city?”

Valjean chuckled; it had been a revelation to learn Javert, to be allowed to educate himself in the man’s ways and be trusted to do so. He did not even mind that one of those ways was to be moody and petulant in the early morning, like a youth allowed to sleep late by an indulgent parent. Valjean himself had always been an early riser, as had Cosette, and he’d always assumed that the duty-bound inspector would be the same. In truth, Javert was anything but – although he never missed the beginning of his shift, he was never happy about being up with the lark.

“Just wind, I am afraid,” Valjean placed the coffee on the side table and slid back into the bed, gently grasping Javert by the shoulder in order to roll him onto his back. Javert allowed himself to be handled, despite his grumblings, and sighed when Valjean brushed his hair back from his forehead. He always looked half wild in the morning, and Valjean loved to watch him perform his ablutions, to transform into the respected and upright Inspector Javert. The untamed, ruffled creature was for Valjean’s eyes only, and he never grew tired of that novelty.

“What are you looking at?”

“Only you,” Valjean said, picking up the cup and showing it to Javert, “Coffee?”

Javert pulled himself up and took the cup, the soft touch of his fingers belying the bad mood that pained his face. He took a sip and mumbled something Valjean could not hear.

“What was that?”

“I said there is nothing of interest to look at, aside from a moody old man.”

Valjean did not reply. When Javert was like that, it would be of no use to argue with him. Besides, he was indeed occupied with looking. Javert’s hair had been a coppery red once upon a time but now it was the grey of steel, although soft with it, and unruly as a bird’s nest. The blanket fell from his shoulders, still broad despite his advancing years, to a waist that was not as narrow as it had once been, but suited Javert’s frame better than the half-starved litheness he had existed on for so many years. A generous smattering of grey hair curled on his chest and Valjean longed to tangle his fingers in it, although he held back. Javert was in no mood for such things this morning.

Still, he was beautiful. Sometimes Valjean would tell him and, even now, he blushed and hid his face. He was more used to kindness these days but, still, too much tenderness overwhelmed him.

“Must you look at me so?” Javert snapped, tugging the blanket back up, “I feel like a specimen in the museum.”

“Forgive me,” Valjean stood abruptly, before he could allow his rising irritation to spill from him, “I shall leave you to ready for the day.”

Javert already looked shamefaced as Valjean left the room, but he did not give him the opportunity to speak. In truth, he most likely appeared more angry and hurt than he was – Javert was often like this, after all – but it had never hurt to let his partner see his own bad mood. Javert was much better at reading grand gestures – the slammed door, the shattered cup – than he was subtle emotional cues. Let him know Valjean was unhappy. It was for the best, in the end.

His rage mostly forgotten even before his foot left the last stair, Valjean took himself into the kitchen with the newspaper he had collected from the doorstep and began his own breakfast.

Javert crashed about upstairs and although Valjean winced to hear the tinkle of broken glass, he held his peace. Eventually, Javert’s heavy step came on the stair and he appeared, fully dressed, at the kitchen door. He still worked for the police, albeit more desk bound these days, and took pride in his employment, as he always had done. In the doorway now, not a hair out of place, he looked every inch the avenging angel that so many of the Paris underworld thought him to be. They had likely never seen the look on his face now though, a mixture of residing bad humour and shame at his behaviour. Quickly, for he could not bear to torture him, Valjean got to his feet and went to him.

“Have a good day,” Valjean said, standing on his toes to kiss Javert’s forehead, “Do not take this mood out on poor François. He does not make the weather.”

Javert made no sound, reaching out briefly to brush Valjean’s arm, and then he was gone. The front door slammed but Valjean did not flinch. No matter their disagreements, Javert always returned to him, and that he had presented himself for chastisement showed he knew he had been brutish.

Apologies would come later. Valjean often enjoyed them far more than any good man of God should.

He’d settled in with a book soon after and read well into the afternoon, warm by the fire, listening to the steady patter of rain on the windows and being glad that Javert was no longer required to patrol in such filthy weather. He remembered Montreuil-sur-Mer, when Javert would come to give Madeleine his reports, covered in mud up to the knee and almost blue from the cold, because he had not stopped to shelter when he was off duty. Even then, afraid as he was, Valjean had longed to offer the man some comfort; a chair, a cup of tea, an ear to listen. Javert had never taken care of himself. He was notorious for it.

The clock on the mantle struck five and Valjean jumped guiltily. He had read the day away! Still, Javert would soon return and he was eager to see if the man’s mood had improved. He went to the kitchen to prepare tea; Javert, always precise, came home at a quarter past five, unless he was occupied. If he was to be late, he always sent a boy with a message and, as no such note had come, Valjean assumed he would be on time. 

When half past five came, and there was no sign of Javert, Valjean left the kettle on the fire and went to the front door. From here, he could see the long length of the street and, when he saw a familiar figure turn the corner in the distance, he released a breath he did not know he had been holding. 

Javert walked slowly, head bowed against the rain, which perhaps accounted for his lateness. He was soaked, the dark blue wool of his coat looking black as he at last came to the bottom of the steps and looked up. There was a shy look on his face; he was not certain of his welcome after their morning. When Valjean put out a hand, beckoning, Javert’s shoulders relaxed and he climbed the stone steps lightly.  
Valjean stood aside to let him in, his fingers brushing Javert’s own.

“You are late.”

“My apologies,” Javert said, and as he turned, Valjean saw that he seemed to be favouring his left arm, holding it at an awkward angle to his body.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Javert said quickly, and the ease with which he unbuttoned his coat assured Valjean a little, “I – we have a guest, Jean.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Valjean said, reaching up and taking Javert’s hat, as he finished on his buttons, “You are being very strange, my dear.”

Javert did not answer. Instead, he opened his coat and Valjean saw, tucked in his inside pocket, Javert had stowed a very small and bedraggled kitten. It whimpered pathetically as Javert reached into the pocket and drew the creature forth. In the palm of his large hand, it looked even smaller, and shivered as Valjean stroked a finger over its head.

“I found it,” Javert blurted, “I heard it crying in an alley near the marketplace.”

“And you thought to put it in your pocket?” Valjean asked. It was sweet to see Javert blush.

“I thought to bring it to you. I could not leave it; it would die by morning.”

Gently, Javert took Valjean’s hand and placed the kitten on his palm. The little thing was freezing cold, despite Javert’s efforts, and Valjean did not have the heart to tell him it would probably die anyway. He was more taken aback by Javert’s actions, by the thoughtfulness that had led to him picking up a helpless stray and bringing it home. The old Javert would never have given it the time of day, save to note that there were too many strays on the street. It pleased Valjean to think that man had gone and in his place stood one who thought of others with painstakingly learned compassion. Good Lord, but he loved the man.

He had been quiet too long. Javert’s fingers twitched and his face shuttered.

“You think me foolish.”

He turned to flee upstairs but Valjean grabbed his sleeve with his spare hand, and Javert looked back.

“I think you anything but that, Javert.”

The other man looked to answer him but then a great shiver went through him and Valjean released him.

“Go and dry yourself,” he said gently, “And then we shall talk to one another.”

Whilst Javert hurried upstairs, Valjean took the kitten to the kitchen and found an old piece of towelling that Toussaint used to dry the heavier dishes. He wrapped the kitten in the towel and rubbed it vigorously, as he had once seen a farmer rub life into a lamb that had been born cold. The kitten lay, docile, and Valjean feared for it, until he heard the rumble of a tiny purr and a pair of blue eyes fixed upon his face. Perhaps it had more fight in it than first glance suggested.

Holding the bundle under his arm, Valjean proceeded to make the tea and placed it all on a tray, kitten included, so he could carry it through to the library. Javert was already there, wrapped in his robe, hair loose around his shoulders. He looked up as Valjean put the tray down. 

“What is that sound?”

“Our guest is purring,” Valjean said, plucking the bundle from the tray and placing it on Javert’s lap, “I believe you have saved a life this  
night.”

“Oh,” Javert found that the kitten was staring at him, and when it rubbed its tiny head against his knuckle, he smiled tentatively. Valjean poured him a cup of tea and he took it carefully, mindful of the creature that had ventured free from the towel and curled up near the knot of his robe.

A beat of silence, then they both spoke at once.

“Javert-”

“Jean-”

Valjean chuckled and conceded the floor. Javert fixed his eyes upon the crackling fire, head bowed.

“I apologise for my rudeness this morning. It was undeserved on your part.”

“You are forgiven,” Valjean said simply, and leaned over to kiss Javert’s cheek, then his lips when he finally raised his head. It was not a demanding kiss, rather less than demanding, but an assurance for Javert that did not involve the words he found so difficult. After a moment or two, the kitten protested as Javert leaned forwards and Valjean had to pull away, laughing.

“It seems your new friend is a jealous one.”

“Mmm,” Javert grunted, picking the kitten up and putting it on the hearth rug, “I do not believe we will be friends.”

“The kitten begs to differ,” Valjean smiled, as the little creature padded back to the sofa and curled up next to Javert’s stockinged foot.

“I did not pick it up for me. I brought it to you.”

“That is the second time you have said so,” Valjean took his hand and laced his shorter fingers between Javert’s long ones, “Why did you decide to do such a thing?”

“I thought –” Javert blushed, “I thought it would be what you would have done. It is no orphaned child, to be sure, but I could think of nothing but you and your daughter.”

“Oh – oh, Javert.”

“It is sentimental of me,” Javert said sharply, trying to pull away. Valjean held on tightly, and brought a hand up to smooth Javert’s damp hair behind his ear.

“It is sentimental,” Valjean murmured, “And quite wonderful. I am very touched you should think of me.”

“I always think of you.”

It was a stark admission, for Javert, and that time Valjean kissed him thoroughly, until Javert was almost panting for want of breath.

“What shall we do with it?” Valjean asked later, as they sat pressed together, sharing a blanket dragged from the back of the chair, “Will we keep it?”

“I do not mind if you do,” Javert said, “You must choose.”

Valjean leaned down and picked the kitten up. Now it was dry, he could see it had reddish orange fur, and it was a tomcat. 

“You would not begrudge his place on my lap?” Valjean asked teasingly, placing the kitten upon his knee.

Javert shook his head and ran a finger down the kitten’s back, before pressing his weary forehead to Valjean’s.

“How could I?” he said softly, “When the last lonely feral creature you saved was myself?”

**Author's Note:**

> This came about partly because I desperately needed fluff, partly because of a drabble I wrote once and partly because my gran got a new puppy.


End file.
